


und der Jäger in mir erwacht

by themissinglenk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin
Genre: M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform, WTF, Werewolves, dystopian russia, from tumblr, pack mentality, prompt, you know how i love russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themissinglenk/pseuds/themissinglenk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little did they know that the freckled boy crying wolf was actually a wolf himself, and as all the town’s hunters rushed forth to the scene at old man Hannes’s used car lot with their blades of silver and green cloaks of their kills, four Wölfe were on their way through the streets indentured by a recent Wolfbann. // from tumblr, open prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	und der Jäger in mir erwacht

They used to say that witches lived in the forest, in huts carried around on legs like Chernobyl chickens’, moving, moving, always moving so you could never find them in the silky fog and maze of tall black trees. They said forgotten cemeteries in the forest was where the vourdalaks crawled forth, hungry for souls to devour. And they said that children born with a caul were cursed and should be disposed of before they could master their shape-shifting abilities, just like they said long ago the Wolf-Charmers had been burned at the stake like others who delighted in devilment and dark arts.

“Fairy tales,” Jean’s mother and father had said.

“Religion,” Jean’s babushka had told him, running her knobby fingers through his hair when he stayed with her in the country where the drama of steam-filled broken-down metropolises and distracted parents just another two cogs in the dystopian clockwork was all forgotten in the old bathhouses and catching fish with your hands, and blowing kisses and signing the cross (the right way) to the ikon corner when your babushka called you inside from playing with the neighbor boys before the sun set completely. In the country, nobody worried about police chases or unlocked their front doors with fingerprint scanners and identification codes. The sky wasn’t gray and the water wasn’t bad, and when you had dream after dream of being a wolf and running through the forest under the glow of the moon, nobody dropped you off at counseling after school. They made you hot cocoa and said your prayers for you and hummed old nursery rhymes until you fell asleep.

But then Jean woke up one morning covered in his parents’ blood and surrounded by what he had only assumed was a gang of thugs there to steal and kill, until the tiny blonde one with the icy-blue eyes said:

“My name’s Annie. I’m the Alpha, and you’re our new Omega.”

And like that was the key to some secret door in the back of Jean’s mind, now thrown open, and flooding him with cold understanding. Everything made sense. Instincts and intuition previously kept locked away shone bright and astoundingly clear.

He was of _die W_ _ölfe_.

“Don’t cry,” tiny little Christa had said to him, a criminal princess in an oversized leather jacket that matched Ymir’s, hands so petite and white. “Don’t cry, friend. It’s a shock we’ve all gone through…our _Awakening_. But you have to understand, the first kill happens whether it’s your parents or not.”

“They weren’t actually your parents,” Reiner scorned, towering over him as they fled the city. “Not that they knew that, either. Technically they were your foster parents. _Die W_ _ölfe_ have no time for toddlers and finger painting. You’d have died of neglect before your Awakening if they hadn’t changelinged you. God knows if your actual parents are alive anymore, regardless, but—hey, you’re free now, right?”

By day, they roamed the streets like gangsters. By night, they scavenged like beasts, avoiding hunters trained to track them in a time when old religion was mocked as fairy tales. Like the tides, Jean’s soul stirred to the pull of the moon. Yes, this was real. This was the truth. This was in his blood. There was no denying it. Waking up naked in the cold of sunrise and jumping someone for some new clothes proved it. Every night was like those dreams he’d had through childhood. _I’m a wolf, and I’m running, and I don’t know where to…_ The empty house in the city and the faceless _parents_ , his babushka and the simple life in Trost, out there by the mountains—those things had been a fleeting dream, it seemed, foggier and farther away from his reach with each passing night, as reality sank its teeth in and knocked the struts of fantasy out from under him one by one.

And it didn’t matter if he was man or if he was wolf; resistance and contention was all that sprang up between him and the _pack_ that had so graciously adopted him.

It wasn’t long before a particularly nasty fight between Alpha and Omega got Jean officially booted.

It was okay, though. He could survive on his own. Not that he’d thank them or anything for teaching him as much.

Ah, Reiner. _Now_ he was free.

* * *

Little did they know that the freckled boy crying wolf was actually a wolf himself, and as all the town’s hunters rushed forth to the scene at old man Hannes’s used car lot with their blades of silver and green cloaks of their kills, four _Wölfe_ were on their way through the streets indentured by a recent _Wolfbann_.

“Where is it, son? Where?”

Marco shook his head, playing the ashen and terrified far too well after so much practice, trembling atop a rusty, wheelless, and forgotten-about pickup in the center of the lot. The hunters looked wary to enter the chain-link, instead calling to him from behind piles of tires and old car parts.

“You’re sure you saw it, son? A wolf?”

“I’m positive! It chased me until I climbed up here!” Marco cried. “I don’t know where it is—it’s somewhere in here—please don’t let it…”

The October wind danced through the empty trees, limbs creaking in a skeleton dance. The aluminum can windchimes of old man Hannes’s place sang their eerie clattering notes. And Marco trailed off, brow knotting, as he caught a new and unfamiliar scent on the breeze.

_Another…_

The blood stained the linoleum in the slapdash shack of a house. Armin emerged from a bedroom down the crooked hall, already redressed in stolen clothes and throwing a denim jacket with a thick cotton hood Eren’s way. Eren shrugged it on and hugged it closed, trying to warm up a bit. Ugh, it reeked of the dead stranger and the dead stranger smelled like ignorance and failure and a pathetic existence of cheap cigarettes, cheaper beer, and even cheaper sleaze.

“Did she tell you why we were sent after him?” Armin whispered. The silence after murder was so hollow. What justified the _Wolfbann_ , the curse of a wolf attack? What made killing in the name of Good better than just killing? The ritual. The tradition. The war in the soul.

“Gypsy,” Eren grunted, nudging the man dead on the kitchen floor with his toe. In a few hours, the body would really be stiff and all the blood would have gone cold and gelatinous from where they’d ripped his throat open together. “He helped sell children for sex. He deserved to die. _Motherfucker_.”

Outside, the wind tugged and pulled at the world. _Hey, look, listen…_

Eren snatched the cheap cigarette from Conny’s mouth and stomped it out, lip curling.

“Hey! _’Tchyo za ga’lima_ —” Conny sputtered fiercely, but Eren didn’t pay any mind. He turned to Armin, wide-eyed and bristled. Armin met his stare in the same stricken fashion. There was a strange scent on the air. The smell of a stranger. But this was no ordinary stranger—

_Another._

He was with Mikasa.

One Eren did not know. One that reeked of the city. One that was roaming recklessly. Sitting across from Mikasa at the table her little dining nook, amongst her crystal balls and geodes, and the bead curtains to the kitchen and soft tasseled throw rugs with smiling suns and moons patterned across them. Mikasa stood the instant Eren burst into the house, creating a barrier between him and the newcomer.

“He’s a _Wolf_ —” Eren cried. “Mikasa, get out of my way. This is _my_ territory. You wouldn’t just waltz into someone’s house without knocking, now would you?”

“You just did,” Mikasa reminded in that bored quiet way of hers. “His name is Jean. He’s lost, Eren. He’s alone. He’s not a pureblood. He was drawn to me like you all were, that’s why they call me a wolf-charmer, idiot—”

Sasha staggered against a rack of Mikasa’s crystals and incense and hurried to steady it before it fell over. “He smells like piss and puppy love!”

 _Puppy love_. Eren got the feeling immediately. Jean was head over heels for Mikasa. “Get out.” Eren trusted Armin’s decisions, ushering him and the other two out the door again. “Go find out what happened with Marco at Hannes’s.”

They left, but Mikasa wouldn’t budge. “Did you kill him?” she whispered, meaning the gypsy man she’d cursed, owl-eyed and composed per usual even in the face of a _Wolf_ getting territorial. Her _Wolf_. They were all her _Wölfe_.

“We killed him.”

“Good. Levi and the others will clean up the mess.” Mikasa brushed through the beads and into the kitchen. “Do either of you want some tea?”

 _Jean_. Newcomer. Messy hair and flashing eyes, looking ready for a fight. He was tall, and slim, but seemed relatively built, in a flannel shirt and clean slacks rising up from the dining nook table with hackles raised. He met Eren’s eyes directly. He did not back down or bow his head.

He wasn’t afraid, then. He knew this wasn’t his land and he knew Eren was the Alpha and either he really, truly was not afraid—or he was good at faking it.  

“You’re not a pureblood,” Eren echoed Mikasa, spicing it up with thick chords of contempt.

“You’re practically a runt,” Jean retorted, sizing Eren up with a glance.

Eren snorted, moving forward a few more steps. Spark of protective rage, bursting from nerve to nerve. Jean’s eyes moved quickly, evaluating the situation a second time perhaps. Second-guessing. And rightfully so. Jean had no idea what sort of blood and tradition he was dealing with here.

“Do you still shift by the moon?” Eren hissed.

“Isn’t that what we do?” Jean countered, jaw tight as he showed a little teeth. Man, did he really think this was worth it?

“Ha! That just proves your naiveté.” Eren’s fists locked. “See, _Jean_ , friend, my pack—we were born purebloods and raised purebloods. We shift when we want, not by the moon. We walk the thin line of danger, living amongst hunters. We kill according to the _Wolfbann_. Do you get that? You’re weak. I’m strong. You understand nothing because you were changelinged, you pompous pedigreed purse dog. Now—you can either keep challenging me, or you can back down and _maybe_ I’ll fill you in.”

Jean lunged and they knocked a lamp off the stained-glass table in the corner of Mikasa’s living room as they hit the floor, a tangle of limbs and elbows and knuckles searching for impact, hands searching for purchase. It was a fight for dominance, of course. Defeat would prove either initiation into the pack, banishment from the territory, or— _death._ Victory, on the other hand, meant the overthrowing of a young pureblood’s kingdom. Gnashing teeth, strangled growls, if glimpsed by anyone else just two young men fighting over pride and betrayal—which, in all actuality, perhaps was not all too far from the truth. Not that Jean would ever understand Eren could have easily shifted then and there and torn his heart out through his throat. But he hadn’t.

Mikasa watched from behind the beaded curtain as the two went at it with all the passion of their canine sides, which was vaguely amusing as they were still just stupid boys ruining her living room.

And then—there it was—the submission. Baring the chest, waving the banner of vulnerability and deference. Eren laid Jean flat, the wind knocked out of him. Eren had him pinioned, straddling his hips. Could have choked him out right there. But Mikasa knew he wouldn’t. Eren knew he, himself, wouldn’t. But this newcomer, Jean…

Jean looked up at Eren with such admiration, it was almost laughable. What was even better was the way it utterly threw Eren off. Was that—did he—was he blushing? Fever-red, he was. Fingers like claws at Jean’s throat but blushing like a schoolboy. The last time she’d seen him look that way was when he and Armin had fought for Alpha, and Armin had been defeated in the same worshiping fashion—or when Levi had come around with that _Wolfssegen_ bouquet of forget-me-nots and white hawthorn—

Eren ducked down and met Jean’s mouth in a bold kiss. Ah, the last test. Mikasa had seen it enough times. She drank her tea and peeked through the beads as this newcomer Jean recoiled, then suddenly and almost violently acquiesced, cleaving so hard to Eren it knocked them off balance. Eren slumped against the coffee table, one leg dangling over Jean’s side. Jean craned up on his elbow, stretching off the floor. They kissed hungrily. Greedily. Impatiently. Power plays. Like Mikasa knew boys to kiss when they thought no one saw.

Jean was in.

It was obvious in the way Eren raked his fingers through his choppy hair, so gently and possessively. In the way he left love bites down the side of Jean’s neck, tiny satisfied grunts and sighs echoing from between them. _New Omega_. Maybe Beta, judging by his steely nerve. Mikasa was proud of Eren’s patience. He was getting better. At least he hadn’t brutally and sloppily killed this newcomer like the last.

The last thing Mikasa heard before the teapot began to shriek was Jean’s quivering plea:

“Please teach me everything I don’t know, I’m so alone!”

And Mikasa knew Eren was still affectionately swirling his fingers in the hair at the base of Jean’s skull as he husked back, “Of course.”

 

**_end._ **

**Author's Note:**

> omfg a;ldskj; i've never really written (or even considered or even been mildly into) werewolves before so this was definitely a challenge and... waaaay too much fun. like this little gem i'm going to keep in mind for maybe even a full fic or actual lit or something.


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